Stay cozy? If you insist
Mole by Ernest Shepard, from The Wind in the Willows
Fridays are my allergy-shot day. Each week, in late afternoon: poor Scott has to give me three (three!), after which I’m pretty much wiped out for the day. They are potent cocktails. They’re no fun to get—and the subsequently itchy arms are no joke—but these shots have changed my life, rescuing me from what had become increasingly debilitating asthma that turned out to be the Pacific Northwest’s earnest effort to clobber me.
So I’m grateful. I’m a lot healthier. And in a strange way, I’ve come to appreciate the way they’ve blown my old Friday rhythm to smithereens. Since I had a (mild) anaphylactic reaction to my maintenance dose a while back, I’m now forbidden to spend any time outside on shot days. Can’t risk increasing my allergen exposure on the days I get jabbed. And I was sternly admonished to do nothing that elevates my heart rate for two hours before or after the shots.
In the summer and fall, this was a huge bummer: no gardening! No long walks with Scott! But in winter? Mandatory cloistering in a cozy home? Doctor’s orders to hibernate? Happy to oblige.
Now Fridays are a reading day, a writing day, a tying-up-the-kinds-of-loose-ends-you-can-tie-up-from-your-chair day. A knock-things-off-the-admin-to-do-list day. A tuck-yourself-in-bed-early day. A day the world will just have to make do without me.
And then comes Saturday morning, when I always feel like Mole emerging from his hole in Spring. Even in December!